


And Yet The Sun Shall Rise

by brooksey



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Dark, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Protectiveness, Rescue, Sad with a Happy Ending, happy-ish ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25119415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brooksey/pseuds/brooksey
Summary: Though it was impossible to know for sure, Cullen's sense was that he had been down here for quite some time now.  Instinct told him that he’d been out for a good while when he was first taken from his tower.  That meant he’d been missing from Skyhold the better part of a day, if not longer.  His thoughts grew clearer and he was struck by a single fundamental truth:No one is coming for me.Written for a kinkmeme prompt asking for a kidnapped Cullen who doesn't believe that anyone will come to rescue him.
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't resist this intriguing prompt, but this is by far the darkest story I've ever written. As a result I'm not sure what the protocol usually is for this kind of thing. So I've tagged everything I can think of -- but if I should be adding some other kind of warnings, the rating is wrong, or there are tags wrong/missed, please _please_ let me know in the comments so I can fix it for future readers.
> 
> Original Prompt:  
> https://dragonage-kink.dreamwidth.org/93509.html?thread=365859141#cmt365859141
> 
> "Somehow, Cullen gets kidnapped, either from Skyhold itself or while out on the road. He's confined somewhere (which can't be great for his memories of Kinloch) and is certain no one will come rescue him. After all, how many chances can he ask of the Maker?
> 
> Prefer a happy ending, though not before our dear Commander is beaten around a bit (mentally or physically).
> 
> \+ if it's Cassandra who comes riding in to save him  
> ++ showing comfort and recovery after"

A fluffy orange-and-white tomcat sauntered through the haze of Cullen's mind. The cat stopped, looked at him, and meowed once. Then it wandered off along a sinuous path, the fog closing around it as it went.

...why was he thinking about a cat? 

Something about this wasn't right. He wasn't in his bed, and everything hurt. Cullen reoriented himself as best he could and slitted his eyes open, which did very little to shed light on the situation. Dim shapes hunkered in the darkness, too fuzzy or far away to be recognized. His left side rested on something cool and hard — a dirt floor, by the smell of it. There was a hint of mildew in the stale air.

Still dazed, he took stock of himself next. He was vaguely surprised to find that though everything _did_ hurt, most of it felt more like stiff and sore muscles than anything else. As far as he could tell, the only real pain was his pounding headache.

He turned his head to face up, about to roll onto his back, and nearly blacked out. The headache went from merely bad to pure agony, and the throbbing back of his head felt disturbingly soft, like an apple well past its peak ripeness. 

When he reached up with one hand, his other hand followed it with a muted clinking sound — his wrists were shackled, a longer chain connecting him to the wall. The second he touched the wound, the memory came rushing back to him.

_The tomcat had been hanging around Cullen's tower at night for the last week, putting on its best pathetic act and begging for food. He indulged it, though he knew he shouldn't, so it was no surprise to be startled awake by the sound of glass breaking in his office below. Softly cursing and trying to think what the cat might have knocked over, he threw on a shirt and descended the ladder to find out._

_Reaching the bottom rung, one foot on the floor, he became aware of several things in the same instant: the presence he felt in the room was not the cat but a man — no, more than one man; the faint whistling sound made by an object moving quickly through the air; and a sharp pain flashing through his head, thunderclap and lightning strike at the same time._

His head still swimming, the thought _it seems my guards are not up to scratch_ floated through Cullen's mind even while he put together the pieces of his abduction. Thinking felt slow and more difficult than it ought to be, like a slog through deep snow, and he suspected he had been drugged as well. But before he had the chance to think much further, his attention was caught by the sound of a heavy bolt being thrown back and a door opening on creaky hinges. 

The weak orange glow of torchlight appeared high above him, slowly strengthening as it moved down what Cullen could eventually make out as a set of wooden stairs. The figure descending the stairs was robed, hooded to keep his face perpetually in shadow even after he reached the cellar floor and set the torch into a bracket on the wall. 

Now that there was light in the room, Cullen noted for the first time the presence of iron bars a few feet in front of him. He drew in a sharp breath and fought a wave of panic.

The last time he'd been imprisoned had been at Kinloch Hold, where he'd been forced to watch every last one of his fellow templars tortured. Now he saw it as if it were happening all over again — corrupted mages tormenting his brothers, men driven to madness or worse, dying right in front of him. Good men and women possessed by demons, monstrosities erupting from their bodies and destroying all trace of who they'd once been.

He had escaped going mad himself only with the Maker's help — something he did not expect to have on his side this time. Curling up tighter, he squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly until he regained at least some amount of control. The man who had entered the room laughed on seeing his distress.

"Commander Cullen. I see my men have made you comfortable," the man said in a tone of cruel satisfaction. "You may call me Silas." Cullen did not reply, only watched warily as the man unlocked the cell door, stepped inside, and locked it again behind him.

Yanking on the chain attached to Cullen's wrists, the man calling himself Silas pulled him into a kneeling position. The movement brought on a wave of dizziness and nausea that threatened to knock him right back over. Silas stood there, waiting, until Cullen finally looked up — then pulled back and swung hard. 

The leather-gloved fist made contact with Cullen's left eye and there was a sickening _snap_ somewhere inside his head. Off balance, he fell to the side, where he was promptly given several swift kicks in the chest and stomach for good measure. 

"I've been so eager to meet you. Word has spread of the humble templar who'd survived Ferelden's Circle, now risen to lead the Inquisition," Silas said in a familiar accent. He leaned casually against the bars, gone from fury to unsettling calm in an instant. "When the news reached us in the south, I gave up everything I had to find you."

Cullen finally managed to get back up onto his knees after a colossal effort. He placed Silas's accent as Fereldan even through the ringing in his ears; maybe not from Honnleath, where he'd grown up, but close by. 

"One of the mages in your care was my youngest sister, Mirabelle," Silas continued. "She was sixteen the year the Blight began. She wrote to us about the templars at the Circle. She told us how you abused your power over the mages. How you treated her, a girl barely more than a child, like a wild animal who ought to be caged." 

Even if Cullen had been inclined to respond to Silas, he couldn't deny there was some truth to the man's words. He'd treated mages with scorn and distrust in the past whether they had earned it or not, something he still had trouble forgiving himself for. And much as he hated it, he knew of incidents where some templars' behavior had been far worse. 

Cullen looked down at the floor, which turned out to be an unfortunate choice. Almost the second he did it, his face exploded with pain and his head was thrown back by the force of Silas's kick. 

_"Look at me!"_ Silas screamed. Blood dripped from Cullen's nose onto the dirt beneath him as he held his head up with difficulty. Though he could see only shadows beneath the hood, and Silas's voice was once again even, Cullen could feel rage radiating from him like heat from the sun. 

"When she left us, we trusted the templars would keep her safe, and instead you abandoned her when she needed you most. She died when the Circle fell, slaughtered by an abomination when _you_ were meant to protect her." He paused, leaning in close to Cullen.

"You don't even remember her, do you?" he added in a low voice.

Without waiting for an answer Silas was moving, letting himself out of the cell and checking the lock was secure. 

"No matter. You'll know all you need to when I'm through. You'll know fear just as she did. You'll know suffering just as she did."

Silas walked to the torch and jerked it out of its bracket, then began climbing the stairs. Cullen slid to the floor, his spinning head making it impossible to stay upright even one moment longer. That voice echoed down one last time, sinister and foreboding.

"You'll die alone, Commander. Just as she did."


	2. Chapter 2

For the second time, Cullen awoke in a fog of confusion and pain. But this time it wasn't only his head that hurt — every part of him cried out in pain now. Every breath he drew was cut short by a stabbing in his chest from ribs that were cracked and broken. Based on how swollen and tender it was, he knew he must have a spectacular black eye. His lip was split and he tasted blood.

Though it was impossible to know for sure in the dark, windowless cellar, his sense was that he had been down here for quite some time now. Instinct told him that he'd been unconscious for hours since Silas had left him, and that he'd been out for a good while before that when he was first taken from his tower. 

That meant he'd been missing from Skyhold the better part of a day, if not longer. His thoughts grew clearer while he considered the time that had passed, and suddenly he was struck by a single fundamental truth.

_No one is coming for me._

His heart sank even as he was instantly certain of that fact, the _rightness_ of it. One only got so many chances at salvation, and surely by now his luck had run out. Somehow he'd been the sole templar to survive the nightmare at Kinloch Hold. Somehow the Maker had seen fit to bring him through Meredith's madness unscathed, though Cullen couldn't imagine why — he'd stood by and done nothing for far too long while the mages and even the common folk of Kirkwall had suffered. 

He had never really felt himself worthy of his appointment as commander of the Inquisition to begin with, and his abilities had been fading fast as he fought the urge to go back to the lyrium. It made him weaker, even less able to fulfill his duties and protect those in his charge. He'd argued with Cassandra only a few days ago, asking her to put someone else in his post, though she had rejected the idea out of hand. He supposed she would have no choice in the matter now.

So of course no one was coming for him — why would they? A washed-up ex-Templar with a checkered past and a lyrium addiction, not able to serve in the command he'd been given? How many people had been harmed, and would be harmed in the future, because he wasn't capable enough for his position? He hadn't been able to keep himself safe — here he was, after all, lying on the floor of some damp cellar in chains. Who else had he failed to save? 

Perhaps he had finally exhausted the Maker's patience, and was in this cellar now because He was stepping in to put things right.

Cullen lost track of how long he laid there in the dark, floating in and out of consciousness, aware of nothing but sensations. Pain from his wounds, naturally; he felt pain most of all. But alongside the pain, other things crept in. Cold that had finally begun to burrow bone-deep as the dirt beneath him leached the heat from his body. Hunger and thirst — how long had it been now since he'd last had food or water?

And of course, the clench of his heart and lump in his throat each time he found himself envisioning a rescue he knew would not come. Were he to admit the truth to himself, that might be the thing he was most glad to escape each time he slipped back under the surface.

Eventually he woke fully, blinking slowly as his eyes focused, and saw a brute of a man on the other side of the bars. He wasn't aware of moving, but he must have done so, because he drew the man's attention.

The brute grunted softly, then stood and shouted up the stairs. Cullen's ears recoiled and his headache flared again. _"He's awake!"_

The creaky door was already being opened by the time the man squeezed himself up the narrow staircase, and after he had passed, Silas entered the cellar once more. Cullen drew himself up until he was kneeling, sitting on his feet with his head bowed. He may have been resigned to this, but he would still stand up to it as far as he was able.

But it seemed Silas had something new in mind, for the beating Cullen was expecting didn't come — at least, not yet. Instead his arms jerked up over his head and he was dragged backward, coming to rest against the wall when the chain connecting his hands was hung from something above him. 

Muted taps crossed the cellar floor to the foot of the stairs. A metallic scrape, then the boots returned to his side. Though exhausted and dazed, a thrill went through his whole body when he felt waves of intense heat rolling off something very close to him. He pushed himself backwards into the wall and finally looked up.

As he had feared, as he had _known_ the moment he'd felt it, Silas held a short iron poker mere inches away, one end glowing red after resting in the heart of a fire.

Silas seemed content to say nothing this time, preferring to use the motion of the poker to make his point for him. _Shall it be your leg?_ it said. _Perhaps your hand? For what would the leader of mighty armies be if he were unable to wield his sword?_

The blistering hot metal next swung upward, hovering in front of his face. _Or shall it be your eye, Commander? Yes, I think perhaps it shall..._

When there came a great hammering of fists on the cellar door, Cullen startled and flinched, protecting his eyes with his forearms as best he could. But agony never came. He heard a string of curses and the dull clang of metal dropping to the dirt floor. Silas clenched a fistful of blonde curls and slammed the back of his head into the wall before striding away. Cullen saw stars and slumped, retching, until he was hanging freely from his chains.

As he sunk once more into the depths of oblivion Cullen would have sworn he heard more commotion, feet pounding on the floor above him, thudding and scraping mingled with muffled shouts. But no — surely he was simply imagining it. His last waking thought was that perhaps his wits were finally deserting him, and that truthfully, if they did it would be for the best.


	3. Chapter 3

Cassandra finally spotted the decaying cabin in the distance as she crested a hill, and spurred her horse on faster. Riding alone, she had made better time than a group could have, but still, time was running short. The sun was already a ball of fire skimming the horizon, the forest rapidly fading into the deepening gloom. It would be a moonless night, and she did _not_ want to wait for the dawn.

It was she who had sounded the alarm shortly after daybreak when Cullen had failed to turn up to the war table. She'd gone to his tower looking for him, expecting to find him so involved in his work that he'd forgotten the time. Instead she'd found the far door of his office ajar; shattered glass on the floor from a broken bottle, its contents mostly evaporated; and a trail of dried blood.

Leliana's network of trackers and spies had been mobilized immediately. Everyone had gathered in the war room, waiting, so tense that even Varric and Sera were at a loss for words. Vivienne stared out at the mountain peaks in the distance while Blackwall put the time to good use sharpening his sword. The hours stretched into half a day, and Cassandra spent all of it pacing the perimeter of the room restlessly.

When Leliana had at last delivered the report on Cullen's situation and whereabouts, a quarrel had broken out immediately. Iron Bull and Dorian argued vigorously for attacking as soon as possible with overwhelming force. Solas and Leliana countered with concerns for his safety, reasoning that even a modest rescue party charging in would likely be spotted early, giving his captors time and motivation to harm him. 

Within moments, everyone had jumped in on one side or the other. Cassandra, meanwhile, had begun doing the math: six hours' head start before they'd discovered Cullen was missing. More than half a day to track him down. Plus however long it would take to get there and extract him. 

Already it was longer than she could abide. Any delay to discuss and disagree only meant more time that Cullen would spend imprisoned and injured. More time during which his abductors might starve him, beat him, torture him. Given enough time, they might kill him.

Her body had gone rigid, eyes locked with the Inquisitor's — among the din, only they two remained silent. Understanding passed between them in an instant, and the second she'd received the nearly imperceptible nod — _go now_ — Cassandra had turned on her heel and left. She'd stopped only to grab a bedroll, some provisions, and a handful of salves and potions before riding out of Skyhold like the Archdemon itself was at her back.

She slowed her horse only reluctantly as she drew nearer. As badly as she wanted to reach Cullen, the thunder of galloping hoofbeats would surely alert whoever was inside, risking his safety and making it more difficult to get to him. But once she finally got to the cabin and dismounted, she stalked straight through the clearing with no care for who might see, practically vibrating with cold fury.

With an almighty crash the worn wooden door was bashed in, slammed into the wall by the force of her shield. One of the men was immediately crushed behind it even as her sword arm shot out and sliced the belly of another. Only then, as their comrades fell to the ground gasping and gurgling, did the rest of them begin to react.

But none could react fast enough to be anything like a match for Cassandra. A third man was skewered before he could even begin to draw his sword. Her trained ear heard a noise amid the shouting, someone trying to flank her, and she pulled her sword back and whirled it around her body defensively in one fluid motion. 

A weasel of a man, thin and sallow, came at her next. He dove at her from the back of the cabin, jabbing a knife straight towards her throat. She parried his lunge easily, then kicked his feet out from underneath him. Her gauntleted fist smashed into his face almost the same instant he hit the floor. 

That left two, a pair of hulking thugs who looked torn between rushing her and running out the door which was now off its hinges. Neither would get the chance to escape. She charged straight at the man nearest the exit, driving her shield forward and up into his nose. He hit the wall and collapsed, limp as a ragdoll.

Cassandra's finely honed instincts kicked in again; she ducked and twisted just as the last man swung his sword at the back of her head in a wide arc. Now well inside his reach, his weapon moving away from her and no longer a threat, she stood up and brought her sword with her. Dragging it up the front of his body, it slashed him nearly perfectly down the middle and he, too, fell to the ground.

As quickly as the fight had begun, it was over. She looked around, frowning — Leliana's intelligence had indicated _seven_ men in the cabin, not six, which meant there was still one more to deal with. She moved towards the back room cautiously but urgently, her sword held in front of her, every sense on guard.

Next to a cellar entrance with one door thrown open stood that seventh man, cloaked, eyes glinting beneath his hood. He hesitated for a split second, then his hand flung out and a dagger was flying through the air. Cassandra batted it away effortlessly with her sword, eyes never leaving her target, and kept coming.

 _Maker_ , this one was fast. In a blink he was gone, nothing left to see but the hem of his cloak slithering down the steps. There was no more to the cabin beyond this room, which meant Cullen was somewhere beneath, and she hurried to follow.

When she reached the bottom, there was the last man again, completely shrouded now in the much dimmer torchlight. And there was Cullen, too, wreathed in shadow and slouched against the back wall. From this distance, it was impossible for her to tell whether he was alive.

Her eyes snapped to front once more. This final obstacle stood in the doorway of the barred cell, tensed and ready to pounce. In his hand was an iron rod, red-hot at the far end, and for half a moment she paused to adjust, readying herself.

But the attack she was anticipating never came. At the last second, he changed tactics and lunged into the cell rather than out of it. Instantly, she understood — he was going after Cullen instead of her — and she was moving again, powerful legs propelling her forward at top speed. 

She smashed her shield into his back a fraction of a second before he struck at Cullen's head. The hooded man hit the wall hard, arms folding in on themselves as he went, and he screamed when he grazed his own cheek with the hot metal. 

_"You will not touch him,"_ she snarled, fierce and intense and terrifying to behold.

Digging in her heels, she crushed him into the wall with every ounce of her strength like the insect he was. Bones broke with a sickening crunch and a whimper escaped his throat. It was the last sound he would ever make. 

After a moment she relaxed and withdrew her shield. He dropped to the floor in a tangled heap of black fabric and lifeless limbs, and was instantly forgotten. 

Cassandra considered the chains from which Cullen was hanging for a moment, then swung her sword powerfully, severing them with one mighty blow. His arms dropped and he fell back, leaning against the wall.

 _Oh, Maker._ Now that she could give him her full attention, she could see Cullen was alive but in appalling shape. Ice rushed through her veins, and her heart was in her throat — though whether it was the heartwrenching state he was in or her fury at those who'd put him there, she wasn't sure. 

She knelt and took his face in her hands carefully, examining his injuries. His left eye was a hideous dark purple and too swollen to open. His breathing was labored and shallow; that meant broken ribs or a brutal hit to his sternum. The golden hair on the back of his head was stained and crusted with blood from a gruesome wound.

She lifted his chin as gently as she could and spoke in a low voice, watching closely for any signs of awareness. "Cullen. Can you hear me?" 

At her prompting he twitched, then slowly responded by opening his uninjured eye. Unfocused and sluggish, his gaze searched her face until finally recognition dawned on him.

"Cassandra," he mumbled, exhausted but plainly relieved to see her.

All the breath left her lungs in a rush — yes, he was hurt, but thank the Maker, he was still here. Still alive, still aware, himself, _here_. She'd been so focused on getting to the cabin, finding him, and freeing him from his bonds that it hadn't entered her mind until now how frightened she'd been that she would arrive too late. 

"Do you think you can walk?" she asked softly, and after a long pause he gave her a slight nod.

"Then let's get you out of here." She crouched down next to him and delicately situated herself under his arm; he sucked in a breath between his teeth and cringed, obviously in pain, but there was nothing else for it. One arm around his waist, she did her best to help him stand up without hurting him further. 

Cullen swayed on the spot once he was fully on his feet and she stood firm, supporting him until the dizziness passed. His legs had just enough strength to manage, though, and after a moment he nodded again — he was ready. Creeping forward, Cassandra guided him toward the stairs and the forest beyond. 

"Easy, easy," she murmured when he stumbled on the bottom step. "There's no hurry. You're safe now."


	4. Chapter 4

A short while later, Cassandra found herself in a flat, grassy area near a stream, and decided to stop. The first stars were appearing in a cobalt sky, glowing pinpricks in the sweeping blanket of night, and still they hadn't encountered the party from Skyhold. She was forced to conclude that it was too dark to continue walking, and that the reinforcements must have had no choice but to stop for the night as well. 

Here, at least, trees and brush nearly surrounded the glade and they'd be hidden from any prying eyes that might pass. They were close to water and the soft ground would, she hoped, be a little more comfortable for Cullen. 

She slowed her horse, then stopped it entirely and tied up its reins. Cullen had just barely had the stamina to grab the pommel and allow Cassandra to vault him into the saddle, riding while she led the horse on foot. He stayed there, hunched over, while she set up a tiny campsite and fire. Then she helped him down, and though she knew the twisting involved must have been excruciating, he did an admirable job with the dismount.

But that minor victory seemed to drain most of his energy. Once he hit the ground he stumbled forward and she caught him by the shoulders to keep him upright. She led him to the bedroll and lowered him down, then sat herself and handed him a cupful of water, making sure he didn't drink too fast. Next she traded the cup for a hunk of bread and a bit of cheese, pleased to see he had enough appetite to finish everything.

"Lie down," she told him gently, nudging his shoulder. He did, surprisingly her slightly by resting on his side and placing his head gingerly in her lap so as not to aggravate his injuries.

A fond smile touched her face, then was gone. Careful not to disturb him, she reached out for the salves she'd brought along. She chose an evil-smelling concoction that Solas had made and that the Inquisitor swore by. Cassandra had her doubts about its effectiveness, but sure enough, when she applied it with a light touch to Cullen's eye, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Encouraged, she treated his head wound as well, eliciting a hiss of pain before his whole body visibly relaxed a few seconds later. Finally she uncorked a small bottle and handed it to him — a mild elixir that would help him sleep. Most likely he would still be uncomfortable, but she hoped that the combination might mean he got some rest. 

A warm breeze brushed past the lush greenery above them, drawing out a calming sound not unlike the rush of the sea. She combed her fingers lightly through his curls, a soothing touch that her mother had used when she was a very young girl. Cullen relaxed a little more, and she had just started wondering whether he had indeed fallen asleep when—

"I didn't think you would come." His voice was thick, dulled by pain and fatigue, by the sleeping draught and all he'd been through in the last night and day.

Cassandra made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat. Though she had Cullen safe now, her irritation still lingered at how slow everyone else had been to act, and a hint of it slipped through despite her attempt to keep her tone mild. 

"Perhaps it would have been wiser to send a larger party than for me to come myself," she agreed grudgingly, "but I could _not_ just stand there any longer while you were being kept in some hole in the ground. It was simply ridiculous." 

Cullen gave a tiny shake of his head. "No, I thought... no one would."

"What?" Her hands froze mid-movement. "Why?"

"It seemed too much to hope... to survive again," he slurred. The potion was dragging him under fast now. "And perhaps the Inquisition would be... better off."

She blinked, not comprehending what she'd heard. How could Cullen think such a thing? She had just drawn breath to disagree when the clash they'd had recently about his fitness to lead sprung back to her mind with perfect clarity. 

He'd fought relentlessly for her to find a replacement for him, arguing that he was unable to fulfill the vows he'd sworn. He'd been so frustrated over what he saw as a fatal weakness, and desperate to prevent the failures that were all he could see in his future if he remained as commander. 

Cassandra had ignored his pleas and tried to make him see his own strength and bravery in resisting the lyrium. And not just that — in everything else he did, as their commander and as a man. Nothing she'd said had made the slightest impression, and he'd stormed off still maintaining he needed to be removed.

She'd dismissed his concerns thinking he was simply being stubborn and too harsh with himself. But now she saw, far too late — he had truly been convinced he would bring disaster on them all. He was already blaming himself for things that might never come to pass, and for lacking the strength to stop any of it. 

It was no wonder, then, that he hadn't dared to hope he'd be rescued. 

Her heart ached for him, curled up on that cold floor in chains, feeling hopeless and alone. She laid one palm on his uninjured cheek and took his hand with the other.

"I will always come for you," she whispered fiercely. "I could never leave you behind. It is rare to find people who can be trusted in this world, rarer still to find true friends. And you are one of my true friends. Perhaps even my best friend."

She gripped his hand and he squeezed back faintly. "I don't know what I'd do without you," she finished.

He mumbled something so quiet it could barely be heard much less understood, then his hand went limp in hers. Her heart stopped for a second, but — no, of course. His breathing was slow and even; he was finally asleep.

Cassandra sighed heavily, both relieved he had escaped the pain for a time and dismayed over his confession. She said a silent prayer, looking to the Maker to help and heal Cullen, to protect him now and in the future. Between the swaying branches she could see fragments of the night sky, now a rich purple faded almost fully to black and littered with sprays of bright stars. 

Her hands resumed stroking his hair, hoping it might give him some comfort, though she knew he could not feel it. When she felt sure her voice was steady she spoke, calm and reassuring, though she knew he could not hear.

"I will always come for you, Cullen," she murmured again. "If you remember nothing else of tonight... always remember that."


End file.
